She played alone with the scratchy wool blanket she dragged from the bed and into the sitting room where the sun was shining brightly through the large window making everything in the room shine with just a tinge of gold. She was alone and didn’t have anyone to play with. Her mother rested on the bed in the room down the hall, a victim of depression. There was no thought to what a little girl might be doing awake and alone in an otherwise empty house.
She had her imagination, an imagination beyond her simple years. Invented friends and fanciful thoughts became her reality and ...
She danced with God, she was sure.
He looked like all the pictures on the walls in the church her father brought her to every week. He wore a long robe and his feet were bare, his hair was as white as snow. An old man, his smile not unlike her fathers and she brought him to life and they danced.
He spun her as if she was a ballerina graceful and light; he held her and made her safe, and he let her rest in his arms. She believed she danced with God, could still feel his touch yet even at her tender age she knew not to share this with anyone. This was her delight to keep.
She didn’t want it to end but as a light pain traveled through her head, she felt sleep come. She rested on the blanket watching God as he watched her until her eyes fluttered shut. When she woke, he was gone but the memory stayed and she felt special.
And through the years, she knew he was always there, watching. She could mark the times when she knew he was shining light on her and her vivid memories of that morning stayed strong.
Now an old woman, she relives the dance in the quiet of her mind, alone again. She watches the sun fill the space; she always loved the gracefulness of a sun lit room. There is a tinge of gold and she knows her dance with God was real, she is sure.
And then they danced.
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